


sing you songs full of sad things

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: The Hiccup happens in late September of 1989 when the air is beginning to turn cold and the nights are getting longer.It’s called the Hiccup because much like a hiccup, it happened suddenly and uninvited, causing distress abound, and lingered stubbornly for far longer than either party would have liked. Calling it the Hiccup is also a tentative of, as it would be said in the coming years,softening the blowenough for the events to be forgotten into oblivion.But in that Wednesday evening– and for many years to come– this would stay fresh on Aziraphale’s mind.*or, Crowley is hurt and Aziraphale worries.





	sing you songs full of sad things

The Hiccup happens in late September of 1989 when the air is beginning to turn cold and the nights are getting longer.

It’s called the Hiccup because much like a hiccup, it happened suddenly and uninvited, causing distress abound, and lingered stubbornly for far longer than either party would have liked. Calling it the Hiccup is also a tentative of, as it would be said in the coming years, _softening the blow_ enough for the events to be forgotten into oblivion.

But in that Wednesday evening– and for many years to come– this would stay fresh on Aziraphale’s mind.

*

He had been about to close the shop, already flipping the sign, really, when Gabriel bounds in, cheerfully pushing the doors open and sending Aziraphale tumbling a few steps back.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, holding him by the forearms and smiling, which is a very scary expression for Gabriel to have because it usually means things are going his way and the opposite direction of Aziraphale’s. “I come bearing good news!”

“Oh dear,” he offers a lame smile. “Please, do tell.”

Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, it’s quite possible he came down here just to brag to one more angel. “The demon Crawly has been defeated!” He announces and looks expectantly at Aziraphale as if he hadn’t just turned his world upside down. “Rejoice, brother! Come on!”

“What– when you say _defeated_ ,” Aziraphale mumbles, feeling strangely numb, stricken.

“I mean _defeated, done for, gone for good, dead and gone,”_ Gabriel counts off his fingers, “and whatever else is under _utterly obliterated_ in the thesaurus.”

“Oh dear, that can’t be,” he says quietly to himself and it’s a good thing, really, that he’s too dazed to be anything but distantly detached. It wouldn’t do to succumb to grief right here in front of his superior. “That’s– are you sure?”

Gabriel huffs a laugh, shakes Aziraphale around before letting him go. “Yes! No doubt, Azriel reported directly to me this afternoon! Why, why aren’t you overjoyed? Your assignment here is finished, you can finally come home!”

And now Gabriel is sort of squinting at him with a hint of suspicion so Aziraphale musters the best smile he can under the circumstances. It’s probably wavering and awkward, but truly, it’s better than the alternative. “Oh _, of course,_ of course. I’m, erm, very overjoyed. _Over the moon_ , as the humans say!”

“Over the moon? Ha! I love it,” he smiles condescendingly, a true patented Archangel smile, “delightful little creatures, these humans, aren’t they? Tell you what, I’ll be sorry to see them go when Armageddon comes.”

Once again, all Aziraphale can do is nod numbly, barely processing this. “Indeed,” he mumbles, itching to dive for the phone, call Crowley’s ridiculously expensive flat at Mayfair and hear his voice hissing about calling this late.

“But I’m afraid there’s still a lot of paperwork to be done for your withdrawing,” Gabriel continues, dusting his coat off like the mere presence on Earth was enough to dirt it, “bureaucracy, you know how it goes. Upstairs will take a good three to four business days before officializing the order, so you’ll have enough time to get your earthly affairs in order.”

_Get rid of the bookshop,_ he means, and in any other circumstance, Aziraphale would be righteously offended, but there’s little space on his mind left for anything that isn’t _Crowley_. “Of course, I’ll see to it soon. Three to four days, you said?”

“ _Business_ days,” he corrects absently. Then he claps his hand, thankfully ready to go. “Well, now if you’ll excuse me, I left Michael drafting Azriel’s promotion and we all know how terrible he is at that.”

“Right, right,” Aziraphale nods fervently and begins to try and shepherd him out the door without any smiting. “I understand.”

Gabriel smiles, claps him on the back once, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. “Sure you do, brother. I’ll be in touch and in the meanwhile, keep up the good work, yeah?”

And before Aziraphale could say anything else, Gabriel is gone, thunder rumbling in the distance.

Inside the shop, Aziraphale finally lets himself crumble into grief soaked pieces.

*

Because Crowley isn’t answering the phone, Aziraphale flies straight to his flat, knocking impatiently at the door for a good five minutes before miracling it open.

His heart is at his throat, swinging wildly between racing and missing a beat, and the door has no business creaking that ominously. 

It’s a good thing Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe because his corporation wouldn’t know how to hold his breath for so long.

Inside, the place looks untouched, eerily still– not even the plants are moving and the kitchen faucet doesn’t dare drip so much as a drop.

For a second, Aziraphale nearly prays, gets as far as looking heavenward, up at Crowley’s pristine white ceiling, before he remembers his people are the ones behind this and catches himself. It wouldn’t do to call Above and alert them to come to finish the job.

Because God knows he won’t let himself consider otherwise.

Aziraphale walks around carefully, unwilling to disturb anything, to mess with Crowley’s things when he might not be there to set them right again later.

It’s in the bedroom that his heart stops for good and if his throat hadn’t been hopelessly locked by a thorny lump, he would have cursed.

Coiled tight on the bed, bleeding and twitching, there’s a snake– there’s _Crowley_.

A shiver goes down his spine as another wave of fear seizes his chest. The room is terribly cold and seems to spin as Aziraphale walks closer, crossing the space between the door and the bed, both dreading and hoping, _hoping_ , hoping what he might find at closer inspection. 

“Crowley?” He asks softly, a quiet whisper not to startle the demon, but Crowley doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge him, stays wrapped around himself, scales glinting dully in the moonlight that spills from the window and eyes unblinking in his sleep. This, too, is wrong, because while Crowley rarely ever shifts into snake anymore, Aziraphale still remembers how his skin glittered under the Sun back at the edge of the Garden, reflecting off the light in mesmerizing patterns. 

He reaches a hand to maybe look for a pulse, or reassure himself it’s not an illusion, almost expecting it to go right through, but instead, Crowley strikes once in warning, lightning quick, and missing Aziraphale’s hand by less than an inch. “Good Lord,” Aziraphale pulls away, startled. Crowley rears back, uncoiling to hiss at him, and his eyes are glazed over, clearly unseeing and unrecognizing. For some unfathomable reason, this sparks the flutter of something foul-tasting that doesn’t settle right on his gut. Aziraphale glares. “Oh, stop that, you old serpent! It’s only me, there’s no need for theatrics!”

Normally, this would be the moment where Crowley would shift back to his usual human corporation, possibly smirking amused at having worked Aziraphale up like this.

That’s not what happens, though.

Aziraphale waits, and waits. And _waits_ , but Crowley stays a snake, swaying on the bed, his once beautiful scales dulled and scraped off in some places, and Aziraphale wants to help healing that, but at this distance, he has to admit he might just do more damage than good. 

Crowley doesn’t snap out of it, not in the four more times Aziraphale tries calling him, and hisses threateningly when he reaches for him again. This isn’t good, Aziraphale knows, and his heart is sinking all the way down to the churning mess that is his stomach, but there’s not much he can do while Crowley is like this. 

There’s only more waiting.

So he closes the blinds and warms the room, retreats to the chair by the desk at a safe distance away from the bed, an unthreatening distance away from Crowley, and settles for watching over him during the night.

Again, if Above didn’t keep records of all prayers, Aziraphale would rather close his eyes and ask God for this small mercy. It could be for either of their sake’s, he doesn’t mind which, really, he wouldn’t mind anything as long as Crowley lives.

_Perhaps,_ he wonders, _that’s enough._ Lord knows prayers have always been more intention than words.

*

Nights are longer during Winter, but no night has been longer than tonight.

It’s cold outside but the room is almost uncomfortably hot, and Aziraphale can’t keep track of Crowley’s breathing in this shape, so every twitch and every hiss jumpstart his heart, jolting his whole body up. It’s unnerving and exhausting, a whiplash every five minutes or so, but they’re proof Crowley is pulling through.

The look on Gabriel’s face is what irks him the most during these hours, especially in those intervals where Crowley stays still and Aziraphale can’t tell if there’s going to be another twitch. The smug smile, the condescension dripping from his tongue, the way he told Aziraphale to get his affairs in order like an adult telling a vaguely related child to put their toys away, the glee at having Crowley gone, gone, _gone_.

It pokes at the parts of Aziraphale that used to have a flaming sword at guard the Gate, and it thrums on his corporation’s blood with something akin to, to… _indignation_. That’s a safer word to settle on. 

Outside the wind blows quietly and the blinds flutter along, allowing slivers of pale silver to slip through and Aziraphale thinks of standing at the edge of the Wall and looking at storm clouds gathering in the distance. 

Sadly, he doesn’t think his wings would do much good at protecting here.

*

As a rule, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. It’s never been something he found particularly satisfying. But with all the worrying and the hoping, he must have nodded off at some point during the early hours of the dawn because when he opens his eyes again, neck stiff and back faintly aching, sunlight illuminates the room in long tendrils coming through the blinds and in the bed, there’s _Crowley_.

His clothes are mangled and bloodstained, and on his stomach, a nasty-looking wound is struggling to heal itself, the edges stitching skin back together in painful blueish tinges that can’t be healthy.

_“Crowley?”_ Aziraphale tries again and his voice wavers, breaks at the vowels. “Are you awake?”

_Are you alright? Are you back?_

The demon stirs, eyes blinking open sluggishly, and it takes a long time until they focus on Aziraphale. Crowley’s face does a complicated thing where he looks relieved and horrified at the same time, settling for a vaguely embarrassed face, drawn out with pain. “Angel,” he says, and his voice has never sounded sweeter to Aziraphale’s ears. “You shouldn’t be here, your people might come back–”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale shakes his head and he thinks he might be tearing up a little, and approaches the bed once more, carefully not to crowd him. “Everyone thinks you’re already dead. No one will be looking for you. Besides,” he sniffs, continuing as loftily as he can manage at the moment, “there’s nowhere else I ought to be.”

Crowley closes his eyes, looking pained, and tries to sit up. Obviously, it’s a terrible idea, and it sends him gasping for breath and clutching at his stomach. Aziraphale clucks at him, immediately fussing with the pillows and helping him into a more comfortable position; he also doesn’t miss the terrible flinch Crowley gives when he first reaches for the pillows.

It sends his own heart, already quite tattered with all the ups and downs of the past hours, into a rather poor state.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale breathes, still hovering by the bed but with his hands in clear view as not to startle Crowley again. “What have they done to you?”

“What?” Crowley is probably going for a snort, or perhaps to wave the concern off dismissively as always, but it comes off too strained to be anything but slightly panicked. “Just a bit of squabble, that’s all. The bastard got the drop on me, had some sort of holy spear-knife-thingy.”

“Oh, is that _all_?” Aziraphale does his best to keep his voice level and not shriek at the casual way Crowley mentions his life-threatening– _literally_ life-threatening– injury. “Just a bit of a _squabble_? They told me you were _dead_ , for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise at that, and to be fair, he does look chagrined. “Did they now? Is that why you broke into my flat?”

“Of course,” he says primly, not wanting to let it slip his desperate flight here. “I had to make sure I wasn’t being called back Above unnecessarily. It wouldn’t do to leave Earth unprotected.”

“Ah, right,” Crowley attempts a bit of a smirk, one of his infuriatingly knowing ones, “of course not. And let me win? That would be embarrassing for you.”

“Very,” he agrees with a solemn nod and frowns at the still bleeding wound on Crowley’s stomach. Well, at least this explains why it’s taking so long to heal. “Now, will you let me take a look at that?”

Crowley’s face falls. “I’m fine, angel, truly,” he clears his throat, “this is healing nicely, I’d say. Be back on my feet in a few days.”

Aziraphale hesitates. It’s perfectly understandable that Crowley would have issues after what he must have gone through and he’s quite convinced all that twitching and hissing in his sleep last night had been due to nightmares. He is also convinced _those_ won’t go away so soon. “This looks far from fine, Crowley,” he sighs softly, “if not for your sake, then for mine? You know I will keep worrying.”

“That’s a low blow,” Crowley accuses, heaving a long-suffering sigh of his own before waving a hand, “but fine, fuss away, angel.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale smiles. He keeps his movements deliberately slow, making it clear where he’s going for, and while it doesn’t erase the flinching or the shadow that passes over Crowley’s face, it seems to help. At least, enough to allow Aziraphale to heal the worst of the gash and the infection that had been starting to fester. Crowley must have been feverish last night, that’s why he didn’t recognize him, of course. “See? Now we _both_ feel much better.”

“Is that pride I hear, angel?” Crowley, _clearly_ better, singsongs and his yellow eyes are already much brighter, catching the sunlight like always. 

“Oh, shush,” he defends himself, wishing away the heat spreading up his neck to his cheeks. Blushing is hardly an angelic trait. “Do you think you can keep some light food down? I’m thinking chicken soup– humans have traditionally made them for their sick– _what now?”_

See, he asks because Crowley is staring at him with an odd expression that Aziraphale can’t get a read on, can’t pin a name even though words have always been his domain. It’s unnerving and it’s stirring something in his chest– something warm and light and terribly doomed– and it leaves Aziraphale feeling unbalanced and flustered.

Crowley, though, only blinks with the leisure of someone who doesn’t need to blink if they don’t want to and grins a grin that is not a smile but it’s still softer than a smirk. A pretty, ineffable thing, Aziraphale would say if he were in the business of getting into trouble.

Which he’s not, for the record.

“Oh, nothing, erm, don’t mind me,” Crowley says, quieter and easier than his usual drawl, “I quite fancy some chicken soup, yes.”

“Well, then,” Aziraphale stands up, dusting himself off for the sake of having something to do to hide the way his fingers are stubbornly refusing to stop trembling. “I’ll get on with it and you do try and rest. You lost a great deal of blood and holy injuries are pesky things to heal in a demon, you know.”

There’s an answering grunt from Crowley and Aziraphale makes the herculean effort of averting his eyes and trusting the demon won’t disappear if he leaves his sights for longer than a fraction of a second. His heart protests, but he stays good on his word and marches bravely towards the kitchen.

How hard can it be to make some soup, anyway?

*

“Erm, so you see, then,” Aziraphale says, wringing his hands nervously, as he sits in the park with Gabriel. It’s very unsettling to have a meeting in St. James with someone other than Crowley, but well. At least they’re not on their bench. “I can’t leave Earth on good conscious, not with the agent of the Adversary still roaming the planet.”

“Well this is just disappointing,” Gabriel huffs, sounding very cross. Like a spoiled child, one could say if one wouldn’t mind immediate smiting. “I thought he was dead, he was supposed to be dead– why _isn’t_ he dead?”

“The demon Crowley is very, uh, wiley,” he explains, clearing his throat and gesturing to Crowley drinking tea in a coffee shop across the street. “You know snakes, cunning and crafty and all that. It’s exactly why I need to stay. Keep thwarting his plans.”

Gabriel glares at no one in particular. “ _Fine_ ,” he whines, drawing the word out, “no more promotion for Azriel and no more coming home for you. I guess I’ll just shred all the paperwork and the forms and the memos, then.”

“That’s– what a pity,” Aziraphale laughs apprehensively. Across them, Crowley sips his tea sedately. A dog stretches its leash to sniff at his snakeskin shoes and he feeds it a biscuit. 

“Tell me about it, Michael will be insufferable,” Gabriel drags himself up, fussing with his suit. “Keep up the, well, work here, Aziraphale. Keep a close eye on that one and maybe figure out how he’s already up and about– Azriel even filled out all the paperwork to borrow the Holy Lance from the Archives.”

“I am as clueless as you,” he says, hoping his face is as innocent as he feels. He doesn’t know, technically, how Crowley bounced back so quickly either. There should be at least another day of recovery. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Huh, I guess Hell is investing in their insurance plans now,” Gabriel shrugs, “no one saw _that_ coming. I’ll talk to Rafael to revisit out dental plans. Maybe cover some more procedures.”

Nodding serenely, Aziraphale watches as Gabriel grumbles about not being outdone by Hell and disappears in a bolt of lightning that scorches a square in the grass and startles nearby ducks.

Across the street, Crowley waves cheerily. There’s no sign of his injury, not outside, but Aziraphale knows the sunglasses are hiding deep shadows under his eyes and Crowley still flinches at sudden movements.

Still, he is finally, as the humans say, out of the woods.

Aziraphale smiles.

He throws some bread at the upset ducks and joins him for tea.

**Author's Note:**

> and hey, if you liked this, you can always send me a prompt or come talk to me on [my tumblr.](https://rad-hoodd.tumblr.com)


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